Together they walked away towards the trees.
Kollarin strolled across to where Gwalchmai stood. ‘A curious encounter,’ observed the younger man.
‘There is still nobility within the clan,’ said Gwalchmai proudly. ‘And I will die happy.’
Kollarin’s face showed his sorrow. ‘You are going back to your cabin, to meet the soldiers who will kill you. Why? You know that if you stay here you will thwart them.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Gwalchmai. ‘There are magical moments when a man can change the future. But not this time. I still have one small task to perform, one last gift for Sigarni.’
‘You will plant a seed,’ said Kollarin sadly, ‘and you will die for it.’
‘Take care of my dogs, young man. I have grown to love them. And now I must go.’ Suddenly Gwalchmai chuckled. ‘There are two jugs of honey mead liquor hidden in my loft back home. I can hear them calling to me!’
Kollarin put out his hand. ‘You are a good man, Gwalchmai, and a brave one. I know you are concerned about Sigarni, and how she will fare without your guidance. I will be her Gifted One … and I will never betray her.’
‘There is one who will,’ said the old man. ‘I do not know who.’
‘I will watch for him’, promised Kollarin.
Leofric’s servant banked up the fire and brought in fresh candles which he lit and placed atop the dying stubs. The blond-haired young man did not acknowledge his presence, but remained poring over maps and calculations. Leofric was not a happy man. Much as he enjoyed the logistics of a campaign, he could not divorce himself from the feeling that it was all so unnecessary. The clans had been peaceful for years, and now the Baron was set to bring fire and death into their lands. And for what? A little glory and the chance to rise again in the King’s eyes. That and the speculation on land prices south of the border.
It was all so meaningless.
The servant placed a goblet of steaming tisane before him. Leofric lifted it and sipped the brew, which was sweet and spiced with liquor. ‘Thank you. Most thoughtful,’ he said, looking up at the servant. The man disappeared from his mind instantly.
The army would march in ten weeks. Each of the six thousand men would carry four days’ food supply with them. Leofric lifted a quill pen. One pound of oats, eight ounces of dried beef, half an ounce of salt. Seven pennies for each pack, multiplied by six thousand. He shook his head. The Baron would not be pleased at such an outlay.
Sipping his tisane, he leaned back in his chair.
By his reckoning this war would cost twelve thousand four hundred gold pieces in wages, food and materials. But the Baron had budgeted for ten thousand.
Where to make cuts? Salt was expensive, but soldiers would not march without it, and it was common knowledge that an absence of beef in the diet led to cowardly behaviour. But halving the oats ration would mean less bulk food, and besides would save only… he scribbled down a calculation, then multiplied it. Three hundred and forty-two gold pieces.
Then he brightened. You have not considered the dead, he thought. The Highlanders will fight, and that means a percentage of the army would not be requiring food or payment. But how many? On a normal campaign with the Baron the losses could be as high as thirty per cent, but that would not be the situation here. Half that? A quarter? Say five per cent: Three hundred men. Once more he bent over his calculations.
Almost there, he decided.
The servant returned. ‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is a man to see you.’
‘What time is it?’
‘A little before midnight, sir.’
‘An odd time to be calling. Who is it?’
‘I do not know him, sir. He is a stranger. He asked for you and said he had information you would find invaluable.’
Leofric sighed; he was tired. ‘Very well, show him in. Give us no more than ten minutes, then interrupt me on a matter of importance – you understand?’